In this, the final chapter of the first book of our tale: It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life, for our wizard, our witch, and our wild one. Far above the mist-cloaked scree of the Shroud Mountains, the Meridian flies to a daring rescue, captained by a promising, but increasingly rebellious, young wizard. Back in Toma, the Witch of the World's Heart takes care of old business and new friends. The wild one runs. As fast as he can. Don't even try to catch him. That ship has sailed.

The mountains want blood. The birds are in on it. The only way out is up. Or down so deep your friends forget your face. Just when everyone finally came together, so many people have to go.

The fog of war floats in the valleys and ravines of the Shroud Mountains like a ghost. It erases. It confuses. It hides. It lies. And through the veil, those unlucky few soldier on, to take in the view, and plan their attack, above a place so many will never leave. Anyone can turn around, but thresholds were made for crossing, and we've got business with the butcher.

Confusion is the brother of death, but my water is good and fast and clean. There is something wrong with your friend, and yet you fight alongside them. Someone will fly and someone will die on the the mountain today, when the sun is a red smudge beyond the pines. Who will it be?

The Battle of Abassin is won, but the escape, and the peace are anyone's game. Into the woods, we go, where the tall trees blind us and we cannot see the forest. The mask slips. We make monsters of men, and speak with animals. The chain of command is thus: hunger, water, music. Each family of sad adventurers is sad in its own way.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. And within the rills and jagged boughs, a beckoning abyss drinks in the light. If you are not careful, if you do not listen, if you speak or move without thought, it will gobble you up, like a sweet tomato, or a useful child, or a secret name, or an empty boat, its lines knocking and bobbing unseen down a river, into night.

The spirit touches all things, but boots find sure footing on moss and stone. At long last, the long arm of empire legs it. The machine is repurposed. Love your mommy and listen to the mirror for once. The least you can do is ask. Finally, after such a long time in the wilderness, peace, and like a knife in the stomach, quiet. All hail the returning heroes. We're going home.

War makes strange bedfellows. Glasses clink like funeral bells. We become the fox, at last, or at the very least: we are not the sheep. Every time we step out of that door, all we have are the words of soldiers. And so many doors are open to us. You don't want this, but at last, and at the very least: in the morning, we ride. This could change everything.

The road is a door, and it beckons wide and open. Turns out, you can, in fact, get there from here. If there is a town, a bag, the throat of the ravening beast, the back room of a humble butcher's shop, your end at the bottom of the mighty Lydwyn. Towns are like Empires, they are made of people and promises. Roads are like graves, they are made of dirt and the space you fill. And along the road, like pallbearers: wild, wild things.

The keen mind is king, and you are not in your tower. You are here with us, underground, haunting the foundations of the world, a shadow, here to offer and support the force. In front of you is a cellar door and a brush of blood. Choose quick: Wear the muzzle, or grow some teeth. By a turning of the coin, you are awake and remember you are dreaming still.

Across the night, with the dawn, this version of her, our gilled mage. Suvirin Kedberiket, amphibious and unalone. In the ice cave abattoir, our survivors, the otter and the otherworldly. The fresh hells of a secret past. And then, the trail, far beyond the broad road, taking them to whatever gifts the past has left. The task at hand. A good feeling. Dark river water. Bodies at the bottom murk, and above us: nothing. Exactly where we want to be.